by Chad Huskins
It was working. By God, all of it was working.
THE NIGHT BEFORE they were scheduled to arrive in Phanes, Lyokh sat in The Place To Be along with Heeten, Meiks, and Takirovanen. The Place To Be was full tonight, a few Orphesian mechanics were playing porhl with a couple of navy boys, and six vorta huddled in a far corner, drinking and muttering conspiratorially amongst themselves.
Lyokh and his friends sipped swill and played hands of porhl. Once again, everyone was losing their ass to Takirovanen. “How do you guys feel about the progress we’ve made?” Lyokh asked, tossing in his ante.
“I think eighty percent of them were already pretty solid before we got them,” Heeten said, tossing in her ante. “But the intensified training was exactly what they needed. The first week we really got them focused up, and after that they were in the zone. The others followed their example.” She gave a halfhearted punch to Lyokh’s shoulder. “We did good, handsome.”
Lyokh smirked.
Meiks finished shuffling, and dealt the cards. “They’re riding the razor’s edge now, that’s for sure,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen this many troopers all working so hard. And so tight in their formations and tactics. They’re tired, but I think most of them have actually enjoyed it. It’s given them something else to think about for a while.”
Takirovanen looked at his cards, made no expression. “They’ll do all right,” he said.
“The soldiers, or the cards?” Heeten said.
Takirovanen looked across the table at her. Smiled fractionally. “Both.” It was very hard to impress a Red Winger, so even that much from Takirovanen said a lot.
A few heated rounds of betting had the pot piling high. Takirovanen considered for a while, holding his doms in one hand, apparently waffling on whether or not to meet the last raise. Finally, he called. Lyokh was pretty confident in his own hand, but then the cards were laid out and Takirovanen revealed he had Full Castles. He had suckered them with his hemming and hawing, luring them into betting higher.
Everyone moaned as he raked in his winnings.
“Well played, my friend,” said Heeten.
Meiks was less gracious. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a son of a bitch, ’Vanen?”
“Yes, but it’s not how I would I describe myself,” he said.
“How would you describe yourself?” asked Lyokh, taking a sip of swill.
Takirovanen gave it some thought. “Antiseptic,” he said.
Lyokh nearly spat out his swill. They all burst into laughter. All except for Takirovanen, who calmly dealt the next hand.
WHILE HE WAS putting his team through their paces, Lyokh was also getting a little extra training in himself. Each night, he had returned to Herodinsk’s lair, and each night the blademaster had humiliated him by disarming him with nary a thought to it, and flung him to the ground with monstrous hip-throws and joint locks.
Each time he got back up, Herodinsk would give a small pointer. Just now, he was saying, “Your balance is excellent while standing still, good and rooted. But you need to work on keeping your balance while moving. Other than that, your skills are coming along.”
“Giving me the shit sandwich again, Herodinsk?” said Lyokh.
The blademaster smiled. It was one of the secrets of teaching that he had let Lyokh in on weeks ago, an old technique of teaching hardheaded people without hurting their ego too much. People could eat shit better if it was between two pieces of tastier bread. The bread was the praise you gave them just before and immediately after any piece of criticism. Always sandwich criticism between two bits of praise, the blademaster had told him, and it had helped Lyokh develop his own leaderships skills.
He was grateful to the blademaster more than he could say. The combination of Herodinsk’s lessons and the daily grind of training Gold Wing had rekindled something inside of Lyokh. He couldn’t say just what had changed, perhaps it would come to him later. But now instead of reliving the screams of his brothers on the battlefield and letting it steal the wind from his sails, Lyokh used those screams like a fire, burning in the hearth of his chest. Any time the thought of letting up passed through his mind, he referred to that hearth.
The hearth’s fire would not permit him to let up. Not ever.
“I don’t want to bruise your ego as badly as I’ve bruised your arse today, Captain,” Herodinsk said, responding to his question.
“We wouldn’t want that,” Lyokh said, squaring up with his teacher again.
Herodinsk push-stepped forward, testing Lyokh’s sword with a tap. Then he lunged. Lyokh simultaneously parried and sidestepped off the centerline, then shuffle-stepped forward and swung. Herodinsk was fast, recovering from his missed thrust and bringing up his weapon to block, using his forearm against the flat of his blade to reinforce it, making a wall. Lyokh pushed forward, and Herodinsk did not move. He seemed to be bolted to the deck itself, an immovable object.
Then, with his free hand, Lyokh slapped the blademaster’s hilt, pushing the sword away and punching out with his pommel. Herodinsk ducked beneath the attack, swept underneath Lyokh’s next swing and delivered an elbow into his solar plexus. All the air left Lyokh in a huff, but he did not relent. He teep-kicked his teacher in the stomach, moving him one, maybe two inches, then came at him with a flurry of swings and thrusts. Their blades crashed and sung their one-note song. Lyokh was gritting his teeth, concentrating intensely. Herodinsk was grinning ear to ear, enjoying the exercise.
Lyokh sank into a flow, one that almost matched Herodinsk’s own.
Almost.
Finally, Lyokh made a mistake. He felt it the moment it happened. He overextended himself a fraction, just enough for the blademaster to exploit it. He allowed Lyokh’s thrust to sail wide, then C-stepped, letting the student trip forward. Herodinsk grabbed Lyokh’s shoulder, pulled him off balance and trapped his heel with a soft kick. Lyokh went flying to the ground, landing on his side.
But Lyokh did not give up. The Forty-Seven Steps also covered ground movement, and he shrimped away from the blademaster, defending the downward slashes coming from Herodinsk. He rolled away from a downward thrust, kicked out at Herodinsk’s shins to keep him at bay, then slithered backwards on his back before using the sword to prop himself up quickly on his knees. It was just in time to block a downward stroke, push it off to one side, then perform a kneeling step towards the blademaster—
—who fish-hooked Lyokh by his mouth, peeled him away from the double-leg takedown he was attempting, and kicked him back against the wall.
It all happened in a flash. Swift hands and glimmering steel. Lyokh landed so hard his breath left him a second time. At least his sword didn’t go clattering to the ground like last time. However, the dull tip of Herodinsk’s training blade went right to this throat.
“Better,” Herodinsk said. “You surprised me with that little move. Nearly got me with the takedown. Your mindset is getting better, too. You’re getting closer to no-mind, letting yourself slip free. Like what you described when you went to save Durzor, I imagine, only more focused. It’s called ‘flow state’ and you can only maintain it by not recognizing it. As soon as you acknowledge you’re in flow state, you lose it.”
“You always say to be mindful, though,” Lyokh said.
“Combat is both mindless and mindful. But it’s that way with any craft. Ask any artist. You have to be aware yet free.”
Herodinsk offered his student a hand, and raised him to his feet.
“Done for the night?”
Panting heavily, Lyokh shook his head, and said the same thing he’d been saying to his troops for weeks. “Again.”
AEJON LYOKH HAD only ever been sure about three things in his life. First had been the choice to leave Timon just as soon as he was old enough to enlist with the Republican Army. The second time had been when he had seen two senior officers holding down a new recruit, his pants around his ankles, both of them ready to have their way with him. Despite their screams and the shame he h
ad felt after ruining their bodies, and despite the intense reprimand he had received for his use of excessive force instead of reporting it to someone, he knew he had done the right thing. He felt it in the marrow of his bones. And the third time he felt sure of a decision…well, he didn’t like to think about that.
And now, it seemed, he had a fourth moment of certainty he could hold high. For he was sure that when he was once again called to the carpet to hand over his report to the Visquain, every bit of what was in the report was true.
“We did everything in our power to take the people you sent us and make them into a fighting force like no other,” said Lyokh, standing at attention in front of the five of them.
“This is very impressive,” said General Quoden, scrolling through a holopane of Gold Wing’s scores. “I’m seeing an increase in firearms ten percent above quals. Unit cohesion appears high. The vids you provided show a nice tight group.”
“You feel they’re ready for deployment?” asked Brigadier Chang-shu.
“Would it matter if they weren’t?” Lyokh responded.
The Brigadier smirked. “No, I guess it wouldn’t. We’re desperate right now and I don’t think it’s a secret.”
“As it stands, though, you’ve done good work,” said Vickers. She favored him with a smile. “We presented you with a challenge, Captain, and you rose to it. A lot of others have been inspired, too. We’ve seen a few wings aboard Ishimoto that are starting to increase their regimen, and I don’t think I’m too bold in saying that some of that is in part due to you and your teams’ efforts.”
Lyokh accepted the praise with equanimity. “We’ve trained hard, ma’am. And my command coterie is beyond exceptional.”
General Quoden said, “Let’s talk about how we’ll be using Gold Wing. You’ve been over the data on the Phanes System, I see. Your report shows your thoughts on your team’s role in the deployment. You seem to think that, for their first mission, the new Gold Wing ought to be placed on patrol duty within the city of Vastill. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve been training these people for war,” said Major T’luk, his thick meaty hand tapping lightly on his voluminous belly. “Yet now, when the time comes, you don’t wish them to be on the front lines? You’ve been running them through zero-grav room clearing drills, wouldn’t those skills be better used in case the Ascendancy pushes into Phanes and the Navy is forced to ram and breach their ships?”
“It might,” Lyokh allowed. “But if at all possible, a fresh group ought to be tested in lighter conditions first. They’re all very experienced, but I would like to see them in a patrol or escort role first, and build up to greater things. Some of them have only done zero-grav during the training here on Ishimoto.”
“But all units need experience,” T’luk argued.
“That’s true. That’s why I leave the final decision to the Visquain’s wise council.”
Advance Colonel Rikken looked at the others, and snorted out a laugh. “Well, he’s learned the art of politicking and kissing ass, that’s for sure.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the Visquain, and Lyokh bristled slightly, clenching his jaw in embarrassment.
“I only meant that I’m not experienced enough of a leader to determine—”
“He was busting you up, Captain,” Quoden chuckled. “Take no offense.”
“Of course, sir.”
“As it happens, we all agreed with you for the most part on your assessment of Gold Wing’s readiness, we just wanted to hear all your thoughts on the wing’s progress. You and your people will be stationed in Vastill, and will be part of the delegation sent to make first contact with this…” Quoden had to pause to refer to his notes on another holopane. “This High Priestess Zane. In your report, it showed that you had read up on all we sent you. I read your analysis, and you seem familiar with the knowns and the unknowns of their society, the questions we have, and the terrain.”
“Yes, sir, I’m aware.”
“And the Machinist Ascendancy? You’ve gone over with your people the kind of tech we’ll be dealing with, should we engage with them?”
“I have, sir.”
“Good. Then I see no reason your request for patrol detail to be denied. Especially since your team is made up primarily of men and women who fought so well on the ground, moving through alien corridors. A lot of ground troop movement is keeping formation, but also knowing how and when to break it, and then how and when to reassemble. I’d say you know what you’re doing.”
Lyokh nodded curtly, grateful that his actions had been appreciated, but as always he was uncomfortable with the praise. “Thank you, sir.”
“However,” said Quoden, holding up a finger. “I will have to insist that your team take point in this operation. You are one of the most senior officers now, the others trust and respect you, and I think Gold Wing is looking damn good right now.”
For a moment, he considered refusing, but Quoden had just said he insisted on this, so…
“I would be honored, sir.”
“Before we convene here, Captain, I’d like to ask you one more thing. A question that comes from Primacy Intel. They want to know if you saw anything strange, besides the scroll, in the sepulcher.”
Lyokh blinked. “The what?”
“Sorry. Sepulcher is their word. It’s their name for the chamber of monument where you found the scroll. They want to know if you saw any…lights? Any sort of visions?”
“Visions? No. Why do they ask?”
“PI is interested in the sepulcher, wondering if it might match another site, like one recently found at a system called…” He conferred with his notes. “Zhirinovsky. Apparently a stellarpath was dispatched by a senator on Monarch—this guy Kalder—and she saw something funny in a cave on one of the planets. I guess they were curious of any similarities between the stellarpath’s experience and yours.”
This was the second time Lyokh had heard the name of Kalder. Reyes had mentioned him weeks ago, after the campaign on Kennit had ended. They were apparently supposed to rendezvous with Kalder and Tenth Fleet in the Phanes System at some point, for some sort of…What word did Reyes use? Crusade?
“I think that about wraps it up,” Quoden said. “So, unless there are any other questions?” He looked around at the other four Visquain. Received only shakes of the head. “Very well, then. You’re dismissed, Captain. Go and make ready for muster and movement, and be at the captains’ briefing at zero-six-hundred.”
“Yes, sir.” He gave a salute, and turned.
“Oh! One more thing, Captain,” the General called.
Lyokh stopped and turned back. “Yes?”
“About those Medals of Valor.” Quoden stood up from his seat, and walked around the table. He carried four small boxes in his hands. “I put in a special order to the fab room. Before I give this to you, I have to make it official. With the words, you know.”
“Of course, sir.”
“While engaged with enemies of the Republic of Aligned Worlds,” Quoden said, handing over the boxes, “Captain Lyokh and his team did advance on the enemy without cowardice or hesitation, only courage and exactitude. They comported themselves well in the face of overwhelming odds, and exemplified every code of morals and ethics that the Republican Army was founded on. For their courage, we give to them to the Imperator’s Medal of Valor, a symbol of their dedication in the fight to uphold the Republic.”
Lyokh saluted. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m sorry there couldn’t be more ceremony, but, well, we’re all taxed as it is right now. I hope you won’t mind.”
“No, sir,” Lyokh said, relieved.
“Please give the others theirs,” Quoden said. “And, if you would, do me one more favor.”
“Anything, sir.”
“There was a tradition when the Republican Army was first established, way back when, of soldiers wearing their honors on their armor. Medals, and also ribbons that represented di
fferent battles they had fought. But that was before the battles became too numerous, and decorating one’s armor with so many ribbons…well, it was cumbersome. The Knights of Sol were the last to follow the tradition, but they’re gone now.”
The way he said it was with supreme finality, the ease one uses when talking about a matter of ancient and proven record. The Knights of Sol, the Republic’s greatest defenders and most senior veterans, had been completely obliterated at Kennit. Their erasure had left a hole, their absence felt by all. And if Quoden’s suggestion was that Lyokh and his people would fill those shoes…well, Lyokh was disinclined to agree.
“These medals here are just simple things,” Quoden went on. “But I would be glad to see Gold Wing’s leadership wearing them on their armor at all times.”
Lyokh didn’t know how much he liked that idea. Drawing attention to one’s medals might be seen as extremely elitist, far too proud, and perhaps even dismissive of all those who fought in Kennit.
“I ask it as a favor, doyen,” said Quoden.
“We all do,” said Rear Admiral Vickers, coming up behind the General. The other three stood up from their chairs in solidarity.
Lyokh felt pressured, and finally acquiesced. “Of course, sirs, ma’am. We would be honored.”
As soon as he stepped out the door, Lyokh felt an immense relief. He had not been aware that he was carrying the burden, but it had been all about him. He had been concerned that he was too prejudiced towards his unit, that he and Heeten and the others had been too proud of their accomplishments, and that the Visquain would find some horrible flaw with what he had done in training them. But the Visquain had seen what he had seen in his troops, the improvement, and the fire they stirred in others.
Lyokh was surprised that the accomplishment of getting all these men and women battle-ready felt more gratifying than almost anything else he had ever done. Now that he thought about it, it might very well be the best he ever felt about any single accomplishment in his life, even greater than coming back from Kennit 184c alive.
